 | Gen. Albert Pike's poems |  |
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MORNING.
A LAMENT.
I.
The dew steeps the heart of the flower,And the green bending rays of the grass,
And there, in an unseen shower,
The mist and sweet odors mass:
The sensitive plant of the bosom,
Is quivering, shrinking, and pale;
No dews feed its withering blossom,
The winds through its parched leaves wail.
II.
The fast stream that runs from the mountain,Is wreathing its white brow with mist;
And its edge, like the brim of a fountain,
With grass and sweet flowers is kissed:
The waves of the heart's crimson river
Flow on, uncrowned with light;
The weeds on its dark banks shiver,
And shrink from the roar of its flight.
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III.
The sunshine is cradled in leaves,And rocked by the unseen air,
While the sea of emerald heaves,
With a slumberous motion there:
No cheerful sunshine sleeps
In the dark caves of the soul,
But the sad heart ever weeps
For a grief beyond control.
IV.
Morn's purple and crimson torrent,Upon the mountain pours;
And still amid that current,
The sunlight rains its showers:
The fire of passion blazes,
Less hotly than of old;
And sorrow, like sea-mist, chases
The morning's purple and gold.
V.
The eagle sits on his eyrie,A golden haze around him clings,
On a pyramid lone and dreary
He fans the snow with his wings:
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Fanning the icy heart;
His keen eye never waneth,
Till the soul and its frail house part.
VI.
The thrush on his nest is brooding,His wings slowly winnow the air,
And a sea of music is flooding
The great green forest there:
No cheerful song is ringing
Through the sad heart's solitude;
Nor birds of joy soft-singing,
Among its ruins brood.
VII.
The influence of the morningIs sweet after the recent rain;
To the heart it is only a warning,
That night will come again:
The heart was once all glory,
Till boyhood faded away;
Its course is now the story
Of an evanescent day.
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VIII.
The spirit of the morning burnethOn his altar orient;
But the glooms that the sea inurneth,
At night will be unpent:
The spirit of life is fainting,
Pressed by the glooms of death;
Like moonlight on a painting,
Life merely lingereth.
IX.
A shadow is on the soul,Like a shadow on the sea;
Though the songs of glory roll
With a grave sublimity:
Like a current of pale moonlight,
In the light of a flickering lamp,
A light like a shadow, half dark, half bright,
Is life in this earthly camp.
X.
Pale Death is bending overThe worn and weary heart;
Ah, what a constant lover,
Grim Emperor, thou art!—
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Shines on the wasted scroll;
It will close, and the lamps go out to-morrow;
The arrow is near its goal.
1835.
| Gen. Albert Pike's poems | |